Thanks for the Memories (13 page)
Grafton Street is crowded at lunchtime, as though the gates to the Dublin Zoo have been opened and all the animals have flooded out, happy to escape confinement for an hour. Justin has finished work for the day, his specialist seminar “Copper as Canvas, 1575–1775” being a success with the third-year students who had elected to hear him speak.
Conscious that he’ll be late for Sarah, he attempts to break into a run, but the aches and pains in his overexercised body almost cripple him. Hating that Al’s warnings were correct, he limps along, trailing behind what seem to be the two slowest people on Grafton Street. His plan to overtake them on either side is botched as people-traffic prevent him from leaving his lane. With impatience he slows, surrendering to the speed of the two before him, one of whom is singing happily to himself and swaying.
Drunk at this hour, honestly.
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 1 0 9
◆ ◆ ◆
Dad meanders up Grafton Street as though he has all the time in the world. I suppose he does, compared to everybody else, though a younger person would think differently. Sometimes he stops and points at things, joins circles of spectators to watch a street act, and when we continue on, he steps out of line to really confuse the situation. Like a rock in a stream, he sends people flowing around him; he’s a small diversion, yet he’s completely oblivious. He sings as we move up and down, down and up.
Grafton Street’s a wonderland,
There’s magic in the air,
There’s diamonds in the ladies’ eyes and gold-dust in their
hair.
And if you don’t believe me,
Come and see me there,
In Dublin on a sunny summer morning.
He looks at me and smiles and sings it all over again, forgetting some words and humming them instead.
During my busiest days at work, twenty-four hours just don’t seem enough. I almost want to hold my hands out in the air and try to grasp the seconds and minutes as if I could stop them from moving on, like a little girl trying to catch bubbles. You can’t hold on to time, but somehow Dad appears to. I always wondered how on earth he filled his moments, as though my opening doors for clients and talking about sunny angles, central heating, and wardrobe space was worth so much more than his pottering. In truth, we’re all just pottering, filling the time that we have here, only we like to make ourselves feel bigger by compiling lists of importance. So this is what you do when it all slows down and the
1 1 0 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
minutes that tick by feel a little longer than before. You take your time. You breathe slowly. You open your eyes a little wider and look at everything. Take it all in. Rehash stories of old, remember people, times, and occasions gone by. Allow everything you see to remind you of something. Talk about those things. Find out the answers you didn’t know to yesterday’s crosswords. Slow down. Stop trying to do everything now, now, now. Hold up the people behind you for all you care, feel them kicking at your heels but maintain your pace. Don’t let anybody else dictate your speed.
Though if the person behind me kicks my heels one more time . . .
The sun is so bright, it’s difficult to look straight ahead. It’s as though it’s sitting on the top of Grafton Street, a bowling ball ready to knock us all down. Finally we near the top of the street—
escape of the human current is in sight. Dad suddenly stops walking, enthralled by the sight of a mime artist nearby. As I’m linking his arm, I’m forced to a sudden stop too, causing the person behind to run straight into me. One grand final kick of my heels. That is it.
“Hey!” I spin around. “Watch it!”
The man grunts at me in frustration and power-walks off.
“Hey, yourself,” an American accent calls back. Familiar. I’m about to shout again, but Dad’s voice silences me.
“Look at that,” Dad marvels, watching the mime trapped in an invisible box. “Should I g ive him an invisible key to get out of that box?” He laughs again. “Wouldn’t that be funny, love?”
“No, Dad.” I examine the sandy-duffel-coated back of my road-rage nemesis, trying to recall the voice.
“You know de Valera escaped prison by using a key that was smuggled in to him in a birthday cake. Someone should tell this fella that story.” He spins round beside me, looking about. “Now t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 1 1 1
where do we go from here?” He walks off in another direction, straight through a group of parading Hare Krishnas, without taking the slightest bit of notice. The duffel coat turns round again and throws me one last dirty look before he hurries on in a huff.
Still, I stare. If I was to reverse the frown. That smile. So familiar.
“This is where you get the tickets. I’ve found it,” Dad shouts from afar.
“Hold on, Dad.” I watch after the duffel coat. Turn round one more time and show me your face, I plead.
“I’ll just go get the tickets, then.”
“Okay.” I continue to watch the duffel coat moving farther away. I don’t—correction, can’t—move my eyes away from him. I mentally throw a cowboy’s rope around his body and begin to pull him back toward me. His strides become smaller, his speed gradually slows.
He suddenly stops dead in his tracks. Yee-haw.
Please turn. I pull on the rope.
He spins round, searches the crowd. For me?
“Who are you?” I whisper.
“It’s me!” Dad is beside me again. “Why are you just standing in the middle of the street?”
“I know what I’m doing,” I snap. “Here, go get the tickets.” I hold out some money.
I step away from the Hare Krishnas, keeping my eye on the man in the duffel coat, hoping he’ll see me. The crisp pale wool of his coat almost glows among the dark and gloomy colors of others around him. I clear my throat and smooth down my shortened hair.
The man’s eyes continue to search the street, and then they ever so slowly fall upon mine. I remember him in the second it takes them to register me. “Him” from the hair salon. The most
1 1 2 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
handsome ordinary man my eyes have ever fallen upon. The family of caterpillars that had moved into my stomach the very second I laid eyes on this man outside the hair salon have now decided to molt and transform into butterflies. They flutter about with excitement, hitting the walls of my stomach like a fly against the window, looking for the exit sign. Even during the highest moments of my relationship with Conor, my few good years of truly loving him, I never experienced this feeling.
What now? Perhaps he won’t recognize me at all. Perhaps he’s just still angry that I shouted at him. I’m not sure what to do. Should I smile? Wave? Neither of us moves.
He holds up a hand. Waves. I look behind me first, to ensure it’s me he’s waving to. Though I was so sure anyway, I would have bet my father on it. Suddenly Grafton Street is empty. And silent. Just me and this man. I wave back. He mouths something to me. Hungry? Horny? No.
Sorry. He’s sorry. I try to figure out what to mouth back, but I’m smiling. Nothing can be mouthed when smiling, it’s as impossible as whistling through a grin.
“I got the tickets!” Dad shouts. “Twenty euro each—it’s a crime, that is. Seeing is for free, I don’t know how they can charge us to use our eyes. I’m planning to write a strongly worded letter to somebody about that. Next time you ask me why I stay in and watch my programs, I’ll remind you that it’s free. Two euro for my TV guide, one hundred and fifty for a yearly license fee—a better value than a day out with you,” he huffs.
Suddenly I hear the traffic again, see the people crowding around, feel the sun and breeze on my face, feel my heart beating wildly in my chest as my blood rushes around in frenzied excitement. Dad is tugging on my arm.
“The line’s moving now. Come on, Gracie, we have to take a bus. It’s a bit of a walk up the road, we have to go. Near the Shelbourne Hotel. Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 1 1 3
and don’t tell me you have, because I’ve dealt with enough today already. Forty euro,” he mutters to himself.
A steady flow of pedestrians gather at the top of Grafton Street to cross the road, blocking my view of him. I feel Dad pulling me back, and so I begin to move with him down Merrion Row, walking backward, trying to keep the man in sight.
“Damn it!”
“What’s wrong, love? It’s not far up the road at all. What on earth are you doing, walking backward?”
“I can’t see him.”
“Who, love?”
“A guy I think I know.” I stop walking backward and stand in line with Dad, continuing to look down the street and scouring the crowds.
“Well, unless you know that you know him for sure, I wouldn’t be stopping to chat in the city,” Dad says protectively. “What kind of a bus is this, anyway? It looks a bit odd. I’m not sure about this. I don’t come to the city for a few years, and look what the CIE
tours do.”
I ignore him and let him lead us onto the bus while I’m busy looking the other way, searching furiously through the—curiously—plastic windows. The crowd finally moves on, but reveals nothing.
“He’s gone.”
“Is that so? Can’t have known him too well then, if he just ran off.”
I turn my attention to my father. “Dad, that was the weirdest thing.”
“I don’t care what you say, there’s nothing weirder than this.”
Dad looks around us in bewilderment.
Finally I too look around the bus and take in my surroundings. Everyone else is wearing Viking helmets, with life jackets on their laps.
1 1 4 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
“Okay, everybody,” the tour guide speaks into the microphone, “we finally have everyone on board. Let’s show our new arrivals what to do. When I say the word I want you all to roooooar just like the Vikings did! Let me hear it!”
Dad and I jump in our seats, and I feel him cling to me, as the entire bus does just that.
o o d a f t e r n o o n , e v e r y b o d y, I ’ m O l a f the White, G and welcome aboard the Viking Splash bus! Historically known as DUKWs, or Ducks, their affectionate nickname. We are sitting in the amphibious version of the General Motors vehicle built during World War II. Designed to withstand being driven onto beaches in fifteen-foot seas to deliver cargo or troops from ship to shore, they are now more commonly used as rescue and underwater recovery vehicles in the United States, United Kingdom, and other parts of the world.”
“Can we get off ?” I whisper in Dad’s ear.
He swats me away, enthralled.
“This particular vehicle weighs seven tons and is thirty-one feet long and eight feet wide. It has six wheels and can be driven in rear-wheel or all-wheel drive. As you can see, it has been mechanically rebuilt and outfitted with comfortable seats, a roof, and roll-down sides to protect you from the elements, because as you all know, after we see the sights around the city, we have a ‘splashdown’ into the water with a fantastic trip around the Grand Canal Docklands!”
1 1 6 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
Everyone cheers, and Dad looks at me, eyes wide like a little boy.
“Sure, no wonder it was twenty euro. A bus that goes into the water. A bus? That goes into the water? I’ve never seen the likes of it. Wait till I tell the lads at the Monday Club about this. Bigmouth Donal won’t be able to beat this story for once.” He turns his attention back to the tour operator, who, like everyone else on the bus, is wearing a Viking helmet with horns. Dad collects two, props one on his head, and hands the other, which has blond side plaits attached, to me.
“Olaf, meet Heidi.” I pop it on my head and turn to Dad. He laughs quietly in my face.
“Sights along the way include our famous city cathedrals, St. Patrick’s and Christchurch, Trinity College, government buildings, Georgian Dublin . . .”
“Ooh, you’ll like this one,” Dad elbows me.
“. . . and of course Viking Dublin!”
Everyone roars again, including Dad, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I don’t understand why we’re celebrating a bunch of oafs who raped and pillaged their way around our country.”
“Oh, would you ever lighten up, at all, and have some fun?”
“And what do we do when we see a rival DUKW on the road?”
Olaf asks.
There’s a mixture of boos and roars.
“Okay, let’s go!” Olaf says enthusiastically.
Justin frantically searches over the shaven heads of a group of Hare Krishnas who have begun to parade by him and obstruct his view of his woman in the red coat. A sea of orange togas, they smile at him merrily through their bell-ringing and drum-beating. He hops up and down on the spot, trying to get a view down Merrion Row. t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 1 1 7
A mime artist appears suddenly before him, dressed in a black leotard with a painted white face, red lips, and a striped hat. They stand opposite one another, each waiting for the other to do something, Justin praying for the mime to grow bored and leave. He doesn’t. Instead, the mime squares his shoulders, looks mean, parts his legs, and lets his fingers quiver around his holster area. Keeping his voice down, Justin speaks politely, “Hey, I’m really not in the mood for this. Would you mind playing with someone else, please?”
Looking forlorn, the mime begins to play an invisible violin. Justin hears laughter and realizes they have an audience. Great.
“Yeah, that’s funny. Okay, enough now.”
Ignoring the antics, Justin distances himself from the growing crowd and continues to search down Merrion Row for the red coat.
The mime appears beside him again, holds his hand to his forehead, and searches the distance as though at sea. His herd of spectators follow, bleating and snap-happy. An elderly Japanese couple take a photograph.
Justin grits his teeth and speaks again quietly, hoping nobody but the mime can hear. “Hey, asshole, do I look like I’m having fun?”
With the lips of a ventriloquist, a voice with a gruff Dublin accent responds, “Hey, asshole, do I look like I give a shit?”
